


Unconditional Love

by KitanaRiddle



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-05
Updated: 2013-04-05
Packaged: 2017-12-07 13:09:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/748861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KitanaRiddle/pseuds/KitanaRiddle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Lestrade is wasting time by forcing him to stay at the flat to talk; Anderson will have already mucked up the crime scene if they waited much longer.  He finally stops his verbal flow of angry rants and waits for Lestrade to say his piece.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>The Detective Inspector clears his throat twice before he is able to speak, “Sherlock, this isn’t an easy thing to say. I rushed over here as soon as I could cause it’s best you hear it from a friend-”</i>
</p>
<p>Unbetaed</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unconditional Love

**Author's Note:**

> Taking a break for a day or two before I finish my Moriarty/Mycroft fic. This tragic little thing made it's way into my head.

Sherlock Holmes sits crouched in his chair, his fingers steepled under his chin. He hasn’t had a case in over three days and sleep evades him as his mind races with boredom. An experiment bubbles on the table, spilling over and eroding at the finish, but Sherlock has long since lost interest in it. John’s snores are faint, barely observable, as he sleeps where he’d fallen asleep on the couch earlier that evening.  The flashing red and blue of cop car lights have only just began to flare through the window and Sherlock is already bounding from his chair.

“JOHN! JOHN!” he hollers to awaken his roommate, “get up, we’ll be leaving soon.”

The doctor wipes a hand over the line of drool from his mouth as he sits up blearily, “Wazzat Sherlock?”

Mrs. Hudson’s voice can be heard from downstairs as she lets the Detective Inspector inside. Sherlock has already grabbed for his coat and is dashing about the flat, leaving an exhausted John Watson to watch with confusion. A tentative knock from Lestrade is all Sherlock needs before he is flinging the door wide open and motioning the man inside.

“Ohhh what it must be this time Lestrade!” the consultant positively beams at the man, “You’ve come here straight from the crime scene I see. It must be absolutely brilliant if you’ve come straight to me. A murder, the blood on your sleeves gives that away. The victim must have also been alive when you reached the scene, but you couldn’t have gotten the name of the murderer or you wouldn’t have come to me. What else Lestrade, what marvellous thing did the killer do to drive you to my doorstep?”

Greg’s face is paler than John has ever seen the man, more so than the time they found two bodies rotting away in last summer’s heat with a stench that made even Sherlock grimace.

“I uh- you better sit down for this Sherlock,” the man’s voice is weary with an emotion neither Sherlock nor John can place, “Please.”

“Come now! There’s no murder too gruesome for Sherlock Holmes, just give me the details. The crime scene, you can tell me on the way there. John, grab your coat. We’ll follow you in a cab Lestrade,” Sherlock is already halfway down the stairs when he hears Greg’s answer.

“You won’t be coming to the scene until you sit down and listen.”

With a flourish of his coat, Sherlock flops into his chair. He crosses his arms and snarls nasty deductions at the man. Greg barely reacts as he stares at the detective with that same emotion that Sherlock can’t understand. Lestrade is wasting time by forcing him to stay at the flat to talk; Anderson will have already mucked up the crime scene if they waited much longer.  He finally stops his verbal flow of angry rants and waits for Lestrade to say his piece.

The Detective Inspector clears his throat twice before he is able to speak, “Sherlock, this isn’t an easy thing to say. I rushed over here as soon as I could cause it’s best you hear it from a friend-”

Sherlock cuts him off with a scoff, “You’re hardly my friend Lestrade, more of a colleague.  It must be Moriarty. That’s why you think I need _coddling._ ”

John realizes something is wrong when Greg doesn’t react to Sherlock’s taunts; he barks at his flatmate to be quiet and listen for once.  Greg gives him a forced smile for his efforts and turns back to the sulking man.

“Sherlock, I wasn’t at a crime scene. I was at home, with Mycroft and they-” Greg lets out a painful gasp, “A single bullet right through the window. We didn’t see it coming and someone, his security I guess, called 999 and- God Sherlock, they had to force him outta my hands and-”

Once more Greg’s words are cut short as a pathetic moan leaves his throat, “I don’t know where they took him or if he’s still alive. Sherlock, I know you and he don’t get along but you’ve got to- we got to- I need to be there with him.”

The army doctor is barely able to catch the distraught man as he collapses to his knees.  He manages to guide Greg onto the couch as the latter clutches into his shirt.  Sherlock hasn’t moved since Greg mentioned Mycroft’s name but the animalistic sob that he lets out draws the attention of the other men.

“Sherlock?” John queries.

The man in question has his face buried in his hands as his body shakes from the force of his tears. He refuses to acknowledge John’s attempts to console him and Lestrade’s attempts to join him. Instead he remains in the same curled up position as he cries himself dry, finally looking up once his eyes are bloodshot and snot has ruined his shirt.  He stands carefully, his knees shaking, and whispers with a hoarse voice.

“If they didn’t tell you where Mycroft was going, then he won’t be coming back alive.”

Ignoring Lestrade’s shouts, Sherlock passes through the kitchen to reach his room but before he can make it to his bed he crumples to the floor and resumes weeping.  John gives Greg a sedative to sleep and lets the man in his bed upstairs; he then guides his flatmate off the floor and into his own bed. The doctor sits beside him and runs his fingers soothingly through his hair while the taller man is wound into fetal position.

“It’s alright Sherlock,” he soothes, “We’ll make it through this. It’s alright.”

Sherlock pulls back to meet John’s gaze and croaks, “Mycroft was the only person who loved me unconditionally. All our fighting and bickering was my way of testing the limits. Time after time Mycroft proved his love for me had no breaking point. I can’t- without him I have no one who will save me from myself no matter how badly I mess up.  I _need_ Mycroft.”

John grabs Sherlock into a tight hug unsure what to say to ease the man’s suffering.  Instead he rocks back and forth clinging onto the devastated man and wishing that Mycroft Holmes was still alive. 


End file.
